


Checkmate

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Sleuth (2007)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Deepthroating, M/M, dubcon, mindfucking, sloppy blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the movie goes differently. Instead of shooting Milo, Andrew claims his prize. But is it really that simple?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> does anyone else love this movie? I love this freaking movie! why am I the only one writing about this, it's so delightfully slashy and subtextual!

“Wait a minute.”

“Yes. _What._ ”

Milo paused before the lift, the woman's coat flaring out around him, looking androgynous and dangerous and fucking infuriating.

Andrew trained the pistol on him. “Come back. There's a lad.”

Milo huffed a laugh. “You haven't got it in you. Besides, how do I know those aren't—” the Qing dynasty vase beside his head exploded. “—Jesus!”

“I have five more reasons for you to get back to bed,” Andrew said, “ _now_.”

Milo gazed back at him, measuring, calculating.

“Now none of that.”

Milo raised his eyebrows in mock-innocence, raised his hands and approached where Andrew reclined on the bed.

“So does this mean Barbados is off, then?” Milo asked.

“Maybe.” Andrew shifted so he was sitting up, sliding his legs off the side of the bed. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how good you are with that tongue.”

Milo was still for a beat, and then he broke into a grin. “You. Are. Kidding.”

Andrew swallowed.

Milo grinned, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes darting back and forth between Andrew's fly and the gun barrel.

“We can still have all that,” Andrew faltered. His hands shook a bit. “Rather, _you_ can still have it. It's just...it's changed, you see. Who has to be nice.”

“Am I correct in thinking that will be me?”

Andrew assented.

Milo laughed, facing up to the ceiling. “Brilliant. One minute you're bartering a jet-set holiday for my arse, the next you're threatening to bum me at gunpoint.”

“I wasn't trying to _buy_ you,” Andrew said.

“No, I've got it the wrong way round, haven't I? You were just being generous with your, ah, _extensive_ fortune.”

“Wasted on you,” Andrew said. “Get down.”

“This was how you got Maggie, isn't it,” Milo said, “a little verbal belly-rub and you're suddenly singing our anthem.”

Andrew gestured with the pistol. “On your knees.”

Milo grew serious. His eyes were so clear and bright it was frightening. Andrew was shaking again.

“How did you manage before Maggie, hmm?” Milo purred. “Rent boys? Many Oxbridge scholars peddling their time for jewels?”

“I won't ask again.”

Milo dropped to his knees in one fluid motion. His hands were laced together behind his head. Andrew whapped them with the barrel.

“Enough of that.”

Milo fluttered his fingers apart and put his elbows on Andrew's knees, propping a fist under his chin.

“In the mood for a little Italian?”

“Yes,” Andrew said, “it is.”

Milo blew air over his teeth. “Trademark Wyke wit. Got anything about the long black tube in my face?”

Andrew clicked the safety. “You're lucky I didn't just shoot you. Now, in your own time.”

Milo smiled, knowing and prickish. “What? Describe to me exactly what action you want me to perform. I'm an actor, what’s my motivation?”

“Suck it or I'll bloody shoot you.”

Milo's mouth formed a pornagraphic cupid's bow and alighted, gently, on the barrel of Andrew's gun. Andrew shook him off.

“Not _that._ ”

Milo had the devil in his eyes. “You sure? It's already nice and hard.”

Andrew unzipped his fly. His breathing was getting shallow, despite his best efforts. Milo took in his shaking hands.

“Being in power really suits you,” he commented mildly, “you don't even have to think.”He rubbed his cheek against the gun like a child with a pony.

“Milo,” Andrew said.

Milo suddenly leapt into motion, darting fingers to Andrew's fly, closing around Andrew himself and bringing him out into the open.

“There you are,” Milo said, locking eyes with Andrew. He gripped the shaft firmly and began moving his hand up and down.

Andrew hissed out a breath. “Finally found something you're good for.”

Milo darted his tongue out to the corner of his mouth, once, twice. Andrew found himself mesmerized by it. Milo noticed. He chuckled, baring the full flesh of his throat. Andrew watched his adam's apple bob up and down and suppressed an animal noise.

“Maggie ever do this for you?” Milo asked, tilting his head. He had a fucking dimple in his cheek.

Andrew shoved him suddenly with his knee. “Know the worst thing about actors?”

Milo smiled angelically.

“They're a bunch of prick-teasing cocksuckers,” Andrew snarled.

“Isn't that a contradiction in terms?” Milo wet his lips.

“They're a funny lot, too. Culture isn't really their thing.”

“'ow _awrful_ ,” Milo mocked. His hand had gradually increased pace, now he was playing with the foreskin, slicking it over the head, scrunching it up on the shaft. His other hand was on Andrew's thigh, thumb rubbing back and forth.

“Maggie's not really coming, you know,” Milo said conversationally.

“Good. There's naught for her here anyway.”

Milo cocked his head. “Look at you. You're like a dog with a bone. Bury it, and onto the next one.”

Milo was teasing, trying to get Andrew angry before he got aroused, but even though Andrew knew all the steps to this dance he couldn't help following it.

“You ever been properly fucked?” Milo asked. “proper bed-to-the-wall fucking? Ever been blown? Ever been ridden like a show horse?” He maneuvered closer, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Mind-fucking may be the domain of the rich, my boy, but it's the working class that dominates athletics.”

Andrew wanted to kiss him. To press his lips against Milo's and shut him up for good, but he was suddenly, deathly afraid of being laughed at so he pressed the barrel end to Milo's temple.

“Use your mouth the way it's meant to be used,” he said, and dammit, he couldn't keep the tremor from hi voice. Milo frowned in mock-disappointment. And stuck out his tongue.

It was like the petal of a rare flower, one of those strange tropical creatures that ate animals rather than sucking water from the soil. Andrew watched with abstract horror as it descended for his penis. A strangled cry of _no, you mustn’t—_ died on Andrew's tongue as Milo's ran his slowly and deliberately over the head. Andrew was sure he could feel the microscopically pebbled surface of the tongue, the veins standing out from the down of Milo's tastebuds, and then he caught Milo looking at him amusedly and Andrew realized he'd let his mouth drop open. He shut it and nodded curtly.

Milo began to give little, nuzzling kisses to the head, some enveloping the tip just enough to make Andrew sick for the warmth and wet of his mouth. Milo wouldn't stop looking at Andrew, with the naughty expression of  _look what you're making me do, you filthy old man._ It only exasperated the pleasure Andrew was trying to contain, trying to keep a handle on himself. His facade of icy, upper-class dignity lasted about two seconds into the blowjob when Milo enveloped him halfway in his mouth. He barely managed to stifle the cry that sounded out of nowhere. Milo's eyes were amused. Andrew squeezed the younger man's cheeks with his thighs. Milo made a little humming noise as he teased back, and then in a little further. He reared back until only the head was in his mouth, and then descended with torturous slowness down the shaft, scrubbing the underside with his tongue.

“Should've known you'd know your way around a cock,” Andrew said, because he had to say something. “this a holdover from your school days?”

Milo let the edge of his teeth drag lightly along the shaft, then sucked Andrew back in with a long, humming moan. Andrew could not restrain himself from echoing the moan. Milo smiled, or pulled the corners of his mouth back, and did it again. Andrew noticed the strength draining from his arms and struggled to hold the gun up. All he wanted to do was drop the gun and hold Milo's face in both hands, but if he did that, he knew, Milo would stop. And the games would start again. Andrew had already won, he didn't want to play anymore.

Milo had been stroking Andrew's inner thighs, now one hand descended to the Y of Andrew's open fly, slipping in to find Andrew's clenching bollocks. With surprising tenderness, Milo's fingers kneaded and rolled them, stroking the seam between them with his index finger. Andrew dropped his left hand to Milo's hair, still too uncertain to lace his fingers through it or something more intimate. Milo finally shuttered his eyes and gave a little sigh, setting up an abrupt rhythm. Andrew found his gun drooping again but was unable to channel energy away from his cock. It was effort enough to keep upright. Andrew realized that he was giving little hip-thrusts in time with Milo's bobbing and tried to stop it, but lost control when Milo's finger circled his perineum. He turned to the side.

That was a mistake.

There was the mirror, no, _mirrors_. There was a hundred Andrews being sucked past the point of control, there was Milo Tindle and all his merry doppelgangers degrading themselves, sucking with pornographic enthusiasm. Andrew was hypnotized. Milo's hair fell beautifully against his neck, the pink of his lips contrasted perversely with the red of Andrew's shaft. A bulge rose and fell in Milo's cheek; seeing his own cock outlined in fleshy relief put a knot in Andrew's stomach. He followed the motion with his eyes, up and down, back and forth, his own moans could no longer be contained. He sounded pitiful to his own ears. All too soon, it came crashing down.

Andrew jerked with a little yell, and came hard. Milo _mmph'd_ ; he'd had Andrew halfway out of his mouth, now little strands of ejaculate leaked from the corner of his lips, more drooling down when he removed Andrew's cock. Maintaining eye contact, Milo patted his lips together like a woman trying on lipstick–and then blew gently. A bubble formed, and popped. Then another. Then, he did a series of smaller bubbles.

Andrew watched semen creep down the throat he'd been admiring earlier and gave a funny little half-sob.

Milo wiped his cheek with the back of his wrist, scrutinizing the mess. He looked up at Andrew suddenly, open and uncalculated. Andrew stared back in half-terror.

Milo licked his lips. “I don't suppose you have a napkin on you?” And then, like a bolt of lightning, the Tindle grin was back on his face. He popped up like a cork, so that he and Andrew were near-level.

“I have to go now,” he said, “it's been fun playing, but I have a flat to keep up and appearances to clean. You're going to be busy anyway.” He hefted himself up from Andrew's lap.

Andrew struggled forward, against the lethargy blooming in his pelvis. “Busy doing what?”

“Getting a divorce!” Milo called over his shoulder. He reached the Grey Goose and downed a slug.

He whirled around, hands flared like a magician. “I'm not sharing you, you know.”

Andrew stammered.

Milo stopped beside the bed. “Think I'll keep this coat, though,” he said, “I think it's  _me_ .”

Andrew looked him up and down. The coat was indeed him.

Andrew put his hand up to ask a question, realizing halfway the gun was no longer in it. He scrambled futilely for is as Milo watched with amused calm.

“You're going to shoot me Andrew?” he said, “now?”

Andrew made a halfhearted attempt to aim the gun at him, his mouth forming words he couldn't give give voice to.

Milo shouted a sudden laugh, drumming a quick syncopation on his thigh.

“Ooh I _like_ you,” he growled, “you're _fun_.”

He kissed dirty, tongue flickering in Andrew's mouth in mimic of the act he'd just been doing. Rather than be repulsed, Andrew felt himself returning the kiss with interest. He could taste himself, and Milo, and the future.

Milo let go of his head with a smirk, wiped the corner of his mouth again.

“I'll keep in touch,” Milo said.

He posed on the threshold as the lift doors opened. “Goodbye, darling.”

 


	2. Frisson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I thought this was going to be a one-shot. Is it my fault this movie's so deliciously slashy?

Andrew Wyke was typing high speed on a laptop. He'd been struck with sudden inspiration about a love triangle that turns deadly, an aging cat burglar whose partner/lover began seeing a younger man on the side, a man who turned out to be quite the burglar himself. It would probably sell like Harry Potter.

“Hello there, dearest. And how flows the prose today?”

The tapping petered off as Andrew looked out from behind the screen.

His muse was in another t-shirt today, and jeans so tight you could see what religion he was. Still had the bloody coat on. Still looked bloody fabulous in it.

Milo loped into the room, wine bottle dangling from his left hand to tap against his calves at every other step.

“Just...typing up a little something.” Andrew gulped. “Won't be long. Have a seat.”

Milo shed the coat and tossed it over a sculpture worth thousands of pounds. His nipples were clearly visible through the fabric, and teases of his muscular stomach swam beneath the surface through as he slithered up to Andrew like an eel. He whipped off Andrew's writing glasses and put their noses together.

“Hi,” he said, and kissed Andrew on the cheek.

Andrew grasped his head and kissed him back full on the mouth. Milo wriggled, laughing a bit through their open mouths, as he tried to re-position himself. After he'd found a more pleasing angle sitting on Andrew's lap, Milo clasped hands behind the writer's back. Andrew drew his hands from Milo's hair, grasping his arse(well worth a jet-set holiday and more) and pressing the younger man against him. After a few nips and licks with an agile tongue, Milo drew back a bit and looked up and down Andrew's face.

“You're a bit happier to see me this morning,” Milo purred. Proof of that was currently digging into his hip, so Andrew knew there'd be no denying it.

“Well, yesterday I had an alimony problem and a cuckolding problem. Today I only have the one.”

Milo chuckled. “Do I take this to mean you've shed your beard?”

Andrew’s lip stuck out in a pout before he could remember himself. “I really did love her.”

“At one point.”

“Yes,” Andrew seethed. “it's mostly been women, here and there.”

“... _But_.”

“In fact I never even thought of– of–”

“ _But.”_

“But it's different with you,” he finished lamely. Milo chuckled through his nose, clapping sarcastically.

“That had to be the most articulate closet defense I've heard in a while,” he said. “you should do Shakespeare at the old Vic.”

“Oh shut up,” Andrew said, and slapped his left buttock. Milo winced, smiling smugly.

“You are serious about the divorce, love? I'm not sharing you.”

Andrew stared sickly at him. “Likewise. How do I know you're not back with her the minute you leave my sight?”

Milo snorted and hefted himself from Andrew's lap, leaving a cold depression where he'd been. “If I’m to be Bosie to your Oscar, I don't very well want Constance hanging around, do I?”

“So you're serious?”

Milo looked up from the model ship he'd been fiddling with. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“Well, it's only...” Andrew licked his lips. “It's only, I very recently tried to kill you–”

“Uh-huh.” An amused smile played around Milo's lips.

“–and you very recently tried to kill me.”

“Failed. Both of us. Puts us at dead heat, darling.”

Andrew nodded. “And I’ve...not been very gracious to you.”

“Oh is _that_ what you call it?” Milo's Cheshire grin could've swallowed an ostrich.

Andrew, for the first time in memory, was at a loss for words.

“It's just I’ve never had anyone like me,” he admitted. “Not in the way you're used to.”

Milo clucked his tongue and shook his head.

“Your problem Andrew,” he said, “is that you're reacting to things I haven't even done. You try to conquer everything, where a little bribe to the guards would leave the gates open. You were all worried about impressing me when,” his voice dropped to a whisper as he bent over Andrew once more, “you should have worried about _intriguing_ me.”

Andrew hardly dared to breathe. “And have I?”

Milo drew his nails down Andrew's forearm. “I can't deny that there's a little bit of a... _frisson_ between us.”

Andrew took him in his arms again, finding the juncture between neck and shoulder and breathing deep all that was Milo, letting his breath out in a protracted moan. Milo chuckled a little and gently kissed Andrew's temple.

“Of course,” has said, wriggling out of Andrew's grasp again, “you pull the same shit with me as you did with Maggie, I will respond accordingly.”

“What do you mean,” Andrew asked flatly, knowing full well what he meant.

“I mean canceling her credit cards for flirting with a man the previous night. I mean making her perform certain acts to get them back.”

“I never...forced myself on her, if that's what you're getting at.”

“No, but in her world, forcing her to wear a mac from Marks and Sparks is a death sentence.” Milo grinned suddenly. “Look babe, it's just a warning. You won't do that, I know you won't, because you respect me.”

Andrew's face began contorting into a sneer, so Milo stuck his finger in it.

“And no looking down on me just because I gave you a blowie. I told you. We fuck each other. That's what people do.”

Andrew's mouth was suddenly dry. “Is that what you're...here to do?”

Milo stood above him, lighting from the skylight sending Gothic shadows over his cheekbones.

“What do you think?”

Andrew glanced down and immediately forced his gaze back up. Milo, gently stroking his scalp, tilted Andrew's head back down.

“In the mood for a little Italian?”

All thoughts of the book had fled for warmer climates. Andrew looked down, stared exactly where Milo wanted him to, and felt his body respond.

“Bed?” he croaked. Milo offered a hand.

 

Further attempts at rational thought were dispelled by the sight of Milo's arse as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. It didn't make sense to Andrew. How could this jolly little cuckold have such a strong hold on him. He had thought himself remit from all emotions that originated below the waist, but perhaps that suppression had just allowed their intensity to build out of sight.

Milo was two steps in the door before he shucked his shirt and threw it over another sculpture, sliding out of his jeans like a snake shedding skin. Of course there was nothing on beneath them.

“I like this room,” Milo mused, hands on his bare hips, “this is a good room. A sexy room.”

Andrew's body managed to divert enough blood to his brain to ask: “What did you have in mind?”

Milo smiled back over his shoulder, not turning to reveal the rest of his body, teasing Andrew.

“A little of this, a little of that,” he said, “a good survey course in fucking.”

“Oh,” Andrew said, “I see.”

He stood there, arms dangling limply at his sides, just gazing at Milo's backside. Milo smiled indulgently and finally turned around.

“Help with your knot?” he asked.

Andrew had little time to open his mouth before Milo was sliding the cord from his robe, wrapping it around both wrists and using it to gather Andrew to him. Andrew kissed sloppily, finding he could not get enough of Milo's mouth, their cocks fencing blindly between them. He let Milo lead him back to the bed, erection angling awkwardly out from his parted robe. Milo, fiddling with the cord, gave it a little twirl before setting it on one of the pillows.

“Just in case,” he said.

Andrew stopped completely whenever Milo's hands weren't on him, guiding him, showing him what to do. Milo eased the robe off his shoulders, murmuring appreciatively at the sight of Andrew's bare body. Andrew had been afraid he'd laugh, and then he'd really have to kill him. Barehanded. Milo ran his fingertips ticklishly up Andrew's sides, examining his cock. They were mostly neck-and-neck for endowment, only the boy(blast him!) did have a little more length on Andrew. Girth too.

“You've kept in good shape,” Milo observed.

“No need for that,” Andrew said.

Milo looked up, puzzled. Andrew realized he'd meant it.

Milo began tracing Andrew's buttocks with the blunt square edges of his fingernails.

“Now, if we're to do this,” he said, “you're going to have to cooperate, Andrew. That means no grandstanding, no bullyboy. Do I make myself clear?”

“You're a bloody plate glass window,” Andrew said. They had been here for over five minutes and Milo still hadn't touched him. It was all deliberate, completely deliberate, but Andrew couldn't stop the little surge of joy when Milo finally took him in hand.

“Seem familiar?” he asked. Andrew nodded. “Good. Come down here. There's a good boy.”

Sex with Maggie had never been awkward, on the rare occasions it happened. Andrew had to think it was only because Maggie made such an effort not to embarrass him, because she relied on him for money. He blessed her gold-digging little heart as he tried to position himself above her former lover with a minimum of awkward fumbling. Milo lay flat on his back, at ease, receptive. Andrew hated the sight. And loved it.

Milo took his hand. “Now, you want to grab us both at once, okay? Just treat it the same as if it were just you by yourself, and we'll be fine.”

Andrew struggled with the concept. “I don't...how do I?”

“You can't do it?” Milo shrugged. “alright then.”

Grasping Andrew by the hips, Milo rolled their two bodies so that now the older man was on the bottom, Milo on top.

“You sneaky little bastard,” Andrew gasped, “you're a shit, you're a total shit.”

Milo smirked as he took them both in hand. “I know that.”

“But,” Andrew said, “you're also wonderful.”

“I know that too.” Milo set up a delicious rhythm, kissing Andrew as their cocks rubbed against his palm and each other. Andrew was beyond the capacity for bodily control at that point and just let Milo do whatever he wanted. Hadn't that always been the plan?

Milo's tongue stroked his, light and dextrous, as he ground their hips together. Andrew responded in kind. The friction was amazing, and Milo's mouth tasted of alcohol and sin. It was a poetic moment.

Milo broke the kiss to smile at him. Then he pulled away, quick as a cat, to sit on the end of the bed.

Andrew lay abandoned on the comforter, empty and cold and rapidly getting angry.

“Andrew.” Milo's voice was like a cup of gasoline on the flames.

Andrew pulled himself up on his elbows. “What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?”

Milo shrugged. “Dunno what you mean, I'm not doing anything. And I’m right. Here.”

Andrew realized he was probably supposed to crawl over to his lover in the spirit of passion, but stubbornly stayed where he was. Milo waited a beat, and then rolled off the bed. Andrew's resolve disappeared in a dash of cold water.

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving.” Milo shook out his jeans. “since you're not cooperating.”

“I _am_ cooperating,” Andrew couldn't quite keep the whine from his voice, “but how the hell can I cooperate when you don't bloody tell me what to do?”

Milo paused, silhouetted against the door like a Greek statue.

“A little verbal hurtle,” he said, “nothing we can't surmount.”

He threw himself over the edge of the bed again, leaning sideways on one hip. He crooked his finger. Andrew, losing any hope that he'd leave here with dignity intact, obeyed.

Milo grasped his face in both hands and kissed it all over gently, murmuring approvals. Andrew couldn't help but be soothed by this. Milo titled his face down, this time angling it sideways a bit. His intent couldn't have been clearer.

“You want me to...” He waved vaguely in its directly.

Milo nodded. He pulled Andrew’s head close and kissed his ear, whispering into it: “you're going to like being debauched, trust me. I think you'll have a real head for it.”

Andrew was inclined to agree.

Tentatively, carefully, he took his young lover in his mouth. Milo tasted strange, salty and bitter, like sweat and anger and fear. Andrew's initial disgust was overcome when he realized that Milo had probably tasted the same on him, when their roles were switched earlier. The prospect was oddly arousing. When his first experimental efforts did not draw laughter, Andrew put a little verve into it, trying to remember what Milo had done the other night. Milo murmured encouraging phrases, petting Andrew's head and thrusting his hips ever so slightly.

It was a little while into his task when Andrew notice a sudden, familiar pressure on his own cock. Milo took him nearly to the hilt in one gulp. Andrew stifled a cry on the cock in his mouth. Apparently this was why they were sprawled out sideways. Andrew suddenly wished for a mirror on the ceiling so he could see it, both of them inside of each other, yin and yang. He stroked Milo's hip.

They set up a competitive rhythm, trying to outdo each other with little tricks. Milo slurped Andrew's head noisily, so Andrew ran his tongue and lips down the side of Milo's shaft. When Andrew withdrew to tease Milo with a few pumps from his hand, Milo worked double time with his hand and mouth working in tandem.

Andrew forgot about Maggie, forgot about the book, forgot about anything less important than Milo's mouth on him. Which turned out to be everything.

They were racing to be the first to make the other come. Andrew found it increasingly difficult to focus as Milo hummed and slurped about his own task. Even so, Milo was a close second when Andrew came in a sudden rush. Some of Milo's come hit Andrew's cheek, some the duvet, some made it inside Andrew's mouth. He gagged, then found the taste not unpleasant. Milo was really playing up his victory, making a show of licking himself clean. Andrew dragged himself over and kissed Milo stickily, caressing roughly up and down his back.

“How does proper bed-to-the-wall fucking feel?” Milo said, nuzzling his ear.

“Like I won the bloody world cup,” Andrew said, “shut up.” and kissed him.

Eventually the ardor drained out of them and they sprawled bonelessly on the bed, Andrew's arm resting across Milo's stomach, Milo's head inclined to lean against Andrew's shoulder.

“Do you have to go?” Andrew said.

Milo, looking surprised, shook his head.

“Then stay.”

“I thought you had a book to work on.”

“Fuck the book.”

Milo laughed, head lolling back on the bed.

“I think you just did,” he said.

 


	3. Turnabout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no end planned at this point and the chapters are all just pointless smut. Any complaints?

Andrew had been telling the truth about not being able to sleep in the main bed without Maggie. There was something so unbearably lonely about a double bed sleeping only one person and, contrary to popular opinion, Andrew Wyke did have feelings.

A feeling of unearned contentment as Milo slept beside him. A feeling of peace as he nodded off with the younger man's head on his shoulder.

A feeling of panic when he woke to find his hands bound above his head. He swore.

“Hey, easy, _easy_.”

His young lover's voice approached as Andrew heard the sound of a cup being set down and someone scrambling over the bed. The sweaty leather duvet had been tossed aside so Andrew sprawled out on his stomach over black Egyptian cotton sheets.

Stark naked, of course.

“You are so difficult, you know that?” Milo's tone of schoolmarmish disapproval was somewhat undercut by the hand soothing Andrew's hair down.

“What the hell is this?” Andrew snarled. “another game?”

There was a breathy little noise. Andrew realized Milo was laughing softly and thrashed. Milo threw his weight down on Andrew.

“Easy. I told you. You need to cooperate.”

“Cooperate? With you preparing to torture me?” Despite his words, Andrew could feel an infuriating excitement build between his legs. Like when Milo had the pistol and made him dance to his tune. Milo played such wonderful games. Hadn't he better give in?

Milo reached down and angled Andrew's face to him. He was now swathed in one of Andrew's robes, gold brocade on black satin(Andrew always felt like Fu Manchu in that one) loosely tied to show off his body here and there.

“Now Andrew,” he said gently, with a hint of reproach, “is that really what you think is going on?”

Andrew really, really hoped it wasn't, but an odd part of him did. Wished Milo would throw him down. Make him sorry. Get Andrew back for the whole business.

“Go back to Maggie,” he managed, “go back to Maggie and have Bordeaux sunsets and Gucci fucking and leave me to the house.”

Milo giggled and ran a finger up and down Andrew's buttock.

“You like it, don't you?” he murmured. Andrew flinched. “That's the secret we share. You want to be bested. Want to be given a good going over.”

“Oh yeah?” Andrew spat, “and why would I want that?”

Milo tilted his head. “Because you're  _**lone** _ ly.”

Andrew laughed bitterly. “You mean I’m just a sad, pathetic old wanker who wants his knob yanked by a boy because his own wife won't do it?”

“You said it yourself. You see your wife as property. You try to posses people, that's your problem. Maggie and me we are—were—more mutual. She said you couldn't get your fingers into anything without wanting to own it. You covet, you don't love.”

“I suppose you're going to teach me to love.”

Milo nodded.

“Well I’ll be buggered.”

Milo licked his lips. “Yes,” he leaned over to murmur in Andrew's ear, “you will.”

Andrew shivered. He was now fully erect, pressing into the mattress, and all out of words. He couldn't help but squirm when Milo started caressing him, gripping each cheek in a hand and kneading his buttocks.

“Mil...oh...” he breathed. Even if he had been capable of it, Andrew no longer had any willpower to wrench the cord from his hands. Milo would leave.

“Funny thing about this,” Milo continued conversationally, “you didn't have the...proper equipment. I had to make do.”

“With what, barbed wire?”

“Massage oil, you dirty bird.” Milo sounded amused.

A finger grazed Andrew's pucker once, twice. Too many to be an accident. Like most of their time together, Andrew was in a high state of fear and arousal. He supposed that was what Maggie had been attracted to, that glint of danger smiling from beneath the genial blue eyes.

There was a pause as Milo took his hands away. A click and then a soft glugging, and an unmistakeable slicking sound. Andrew drew in a breath.

“Milo,” he began, “maybe this wasn't such a great—”

Something cool dribbled down his behind. He shifted as Milo's cockhead found his entrance, rubbing and poking and prying like a curious eel. He coughed.

“I’m by no means an expert, but don't you have to—”

“Shut up, you're ruining the mood.”

The head breached the ring of muscle, and Andrew skipped a breath as he was stretched out almost past the point of pain.

“This is it right here.” Milo sounded strained. “What you want. What you deserve. Did forcing me to give you head feel good?”

Andrew lay still, cheek to the sheets. “Yes,” he whispered.

Milo laughed. “Well great, princess. You're gonna love this one.”

At some point the stretching peaked and then fell away, and Milo slid in as if the place belonged to him. Even though it didn't feel good, Andrew's cock throbbed sympathetically. Milo gasped.

“Now you really have been deflowered,” he murmured.

Andrew groaned. “Serve you bloody right if I had a heart attack right here and now. Try explaining this one to the police.”

Milo's voice assumed a breathy whine, an exaggerated upper-class accent. “You see officer, we met online and he said he wanted to buy me candy and take me round the world. I didn't know what he meant, I swear!”

Andrew strained to look behind himself. “You're really too good at that.”

“I know mate. Bloody wasted on daytime television.” Milo smoothed Andrew's hair. “How are you getting on?”

“Oh splendid, really wonderful.” Andrew shifted. “you know, it hardly feels like there's a prick up my arse at all!”

Milo chuckled. “Then I’ve done something wrong.”

He wriggled and squirmed until he was so deep inside Andrew that their balls touched. Milo's hand wormed its way to the front and found Andrew's cock, which he immediately began to manipulate. Slowly, Andrew relaxed.

“There you are. See? We'll make a pervert out of you yet.”

Andrew groaned. He was helpless, completely at the mercy of a man he'd humiliated, threatened, and forced himself on. He had never felt so at home.

Milo's tongue flicked his ear. “I know you're thinking, darling. It has to stop. I can't do my job with you planning and plotting up there.”

Andrew writhed as Milo's hand redoubled its efforts.

“Here,” he croaked out, “let me remove my brain so I can think at your level.”

Milo's tongue found his ear again, plunging in this time.

“Way ahead of you, mate.”

Milo began a series of noisy, sucking kisses to Andrew's neck, as he masturbated him in front and sneakily fornicated him in the back. Andrew's voice broke on a groan and Milo tittered.

“That better, sweet pea?”

Andrew whimpered into the pillow.

“Good. Because I'm done being nice.”

Nothing could prepare Andrew for Milo's cock, sliding out nearly to the tip and then slamming back in one smooth motion. It was electric, sending little fingers of shock up his spine and throughout his body. His cock was a lightening rod. Milo did it once more. Again. A third time.

And ranted. “Shoot me, will you? Try to bloody corrupt me, buy me off?”

Andrew, had he been capable of answering, could not think of anything to say to that.

Milo nipped his shoulder. “First you wave your pistol in my face, then you do the same with your cock? What kind of man are you?”

Andrew whined through his nose. His speech came in rhythm with the thrusts: “no man—a cunt.”

Milo laughed. He liked that. “Cunt. It's such a fun word to say. Cunt, cunt, cunt. You're a cunt, you're a twat, you're a supercilious slit in human form.”

“You have a gift for words,” Andrew gasped into the pillow.

“And you have a gift for talking out of turn.” A slap on his rump. “Did I say you could agree with me?” Another slap. “What kind of a man agrees he's a cunt?”

Andrew inclined his hips toward Milo. The younger man was hammering into him in dizzy, revenge-fueled strokes.

“I _am_ a cunt,” Andrew admitted brokenly, “fuck me?”

Milo gradually stopped, his pistoning slowing to a crawl. Andrew whimpered.

“What?”

“Is that what you want?” Milo asked. Andrew couldn't tell what his tone of voice was, if it was mocking or consoling, satiric or sincere.

“Yes,” Andrew said, “fuck me please. No one else will.”

Milo's free hand traced up from Andrew's hipbone up to his shoulder, where it gave a friendly squeeze. Milo built up speed again until he was flying. Andrew sobbed slightly because it was so good. Because it was so bad.

At first the gush of warmth inside him made Andrew fear he'd torn something. But as Milo's strokes lazily petered off, he realized the real cause with horror.

“Don't stop!” God help him, it came out as a yelp. “You've only got a little bit more, please!” He wriggled. “Untie my hands, I’ll finish myself.”

Milo hummed through his nose, a funny little sound that wasn't quite a laugh.

“Don't worry. I'll take care of you.”

Milo's ardor still had enough starch to keep pounding Andrew, as the younger man worked him harder with his hand and whispered filthy, comforting things in Andrew's ear.

The words, the friction, the whole damn thing was too much. Wrists straining, cord cracking, Andrew came.

The world was blurry. No, he realized, his eyes had gone all teary.

Milo wrapped his arms around him, sliding all the way into the hilt one last time. Then he slowly eased his softening member from Andrew, nose on the nape of his neck, squeezing him gently.

Andrew was, for all intents and purposes, dead. Life would not be able to go on after this. How could the sun shine and garbage collectors rattle the bins at six a.m. when he'd just been savagely fucked by his wife's lover?

That was still how Andrew thought about him.  _Not mine_ .

He hadn't realized he'd nodded off until Milo was shaking him awake.

“Rise and shine, there's a love.” Milo smiled warmly. He'd changed to a different robe, this one a sandy atlas pattern, and held a plate with some eggs and toast. Andrew flexed his hands and found they were untied.

Andrew looked at the plate. “See you found my chanterelles.”

“Yes, and your scallions.” Milo wiggled the plate. “Come on, they're practically swimming in butter. It's amazing.”

Andrew eased himself to a sitting position, yelping slightly. Milo's eyes showed equal amusement and concern.

“If I'm going to sleep here we've got to do something about these pillows. No bloody support.”

“Maggie didn't mind.”

“Oh she minded.” Milo perched on the side of the bed, legs crossed. “She just didn't tell you. I'm telling you now.”

Andrew put a piece of egg on the toast and ate.

“We'll have to get some supplies if we're to continue on in this fashion,” Milo continued, “lubricants and supports and so forth.” He gave Andrew a naughty look. “I’ll fetch them, if you're not afraid to let me out of your sight.”

Andrew frowned wryly and chewed instead of answering, because he _was_ afraid.

This whole thing seemed like a perverse dream that would pop like a bubble if he let it. That Milo would suddenly shapeshift the second he was out of sight and Andrew would never find him again.

Milo lifted the corner of his mouth, dimpling that cheek again. He seemed to sense Andrew's thoughts.

“Know how you keep me?” he asked, placing a hand on the back of Andrew's head.

Andrew, not trusting his voice, shook his head.

“Interest me,” Milo said, “intrigue me, make me _want_ to stay.”

Andrew licked stray crumbs from his lip. “And how do you propose I do that?” His tone was dry, but he was genuinely interested.

Milo smiled. “Give me something you've given to no one else.”

“Such as?”

“Be nice to me.” Milo kissed his cheek. “Be sweet.” He kissed his other cheek. “Don't just be charming. Don't try to palm me off with gifts, that isn't being nice. It's _handling_.”

_I want to handle you_ , Andrew thought. It was amazing how dirty his thoughts had become in the short span of time they'd been together.

“What about Maggie?” he blurted.

Milo tilted his head, eyes sharp, peering out from beneath his bangs like a tiger through the grass.

“What about her?” he asked lightly.

“I know you still love her–”

“Oh you _do_ , now?”

“–and I know she got you without anything. She had no real money when she met you. She had her body, that's it.”

“That's true.” Milo was amused and angry. “she did have nicer tits than you, now that I think about it.”

Andrew tried not to be hurt by that, and failed. It was like Milo knew instinctively where his buttons were.

“And I tried to kill you. I made you cry.” Andrew felt a flush of cold. Milo had forgotten that, but now he had to go and remind him.

Milo smiled sphinx-like, giving nothing back. “You also pointed a gun at me and made me suck you off. Forgetting that?”

“Why would you stay with me rather than getting revenge?”

Milo divested him of the plate, putting it on the sheets beside them, stroking Andrew's thighs with his bare palms as he edged closer. The light caught his lips. He smiled gently.

“Well Andrew,” he said, “figure that out. I'll be back.”

The door shut behind him.

Andrew waited five minutes and then sobbed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a downer note, I know. Don't worry, there's more coming.


	4. Jeux Sans Frontieres

It was dusk when Milo came back, Andrew could hear the bags rustle against each other as Milo called out to him from the hall. Milo caught sight of the gun Andrew had shakily trained on him and gave him a look as if to say _this again?_

The bottle of Chilean chardonnay sat open beside him, only a fifth of it left.

“I see you've seen fit to return my keys,” Andrew slurred.

Milo gave a smile of practiced patience. “You're drunk.”

“You're done.” Andrew had to steady himself on the chair arm. “I won't be fucked about by anyone. Not in my own house.” His voice was thick.

Milo looked at him without any trace of mockery. “I take it you've come up with a blank, then.”

Andrew was blocked, it was true. As opposed to his sudden bolt this morning, he hadn't written a word since Milo left.

Milo approached him slowly, reached over, laced his finger through the pistol grip, and lifted it out of Andrew's unresisting hand.

Andrew went limp, strings cut.

“I won't beg,” he lied. Milo chuckled, but there was no humor in it. Concern shone in his eyes.

“That's the first place you go,” he said, “did I ever use the word beg? Did I even _hint_ at it?”

“You told me to give you a reason.” Andrew belched and suppressed it. “There isn't bloody one.”

Milo rested the gun on his head, as he'd done often in their first little game. It was Andrew's favorite pose, Milo displaying his body, showing how he had, and always would have, all the power.

“I think I love you,” he said brokenly.

Milo went surprised for a moment, then mild and sweet. He gathered Andrew to him, kissing each eye, laying a trail of gentle little pecks on his mouth.

“There, dear,” he said, “was that so hard?”

Andrew looked up at him incredulously.

“You mean that was all? I already bloody did that!”

Milo smiled patiently. “No you didn't.”

“I did, I offered myself to you!”

“You. Offered. Me. Things.” Milo said sternly, “in exchange for being _kept_. I told you I don't want to be _kept_ , I want to be wanted.”

“I want you,” Andrew snapped, “but you couldn't possibly want me half as much.”

“Well, if you keep spouting self-fulfilling prophecies like this, we'll be here all night.” Milo lifted an arm over his shoulder. “come on, give us a hand.”

“Where are we going?” Andrew no longer felt like a chessmaster. He felt like a confused, silly old man. Milo's tolerant sigh only confirmed that.

“Bed. You're no good to anyone like this.”

Andrew leaned possessively on Milo, threading his free arm around the younger man's torso. Between the two of them, they managed not to fall before they reached the bedroom. Andrew let Milo undress him, lifting his arms and legs, but offering no further help. Only when he was down to his briefs did Milo stop.

“You want me to get you anything,” he asked, “warm milk? A bucket?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Andrew said, and rolled over. Milo left for a bit, Andrew could hear the rattles and scrapes as he put things away. He wondered where the sexual aids would go. Pantry, perhaps? He giggled unevenly. He _was_ drunk.

Milo tripped back up the stairs. “You haven't shot something yet, have you? Like yourself?”

“Serve you bloody right,” Andrew murmured, pillowed on his forearm. “Look like you'd broken in to bugger and murder me.”

Milo laughed. “Like you'd risk book sales.”

“You don't know that. Imagine Len Deighton's numbers if it came out he was a sadistic sex-fiend?”

“You mean that isn't already common knowledge?” Milo was suddenly close. “shift over.”

“If you're going to bugger me, at least have the decency to say 'please'.”

Milo nuzzled the back of his neck. “I don't like sleeping right up the edge of the bed. Give us a little room, love.”

Andrew complied. Milo snugged against his back as if they had been carved to fit. His right arm wrapped around Andrew's middle, his face just in between shoulder and neck.

“I've a right mind to bum you senseless,” Milo said, “but I'm a bit tired from lugging this ego around all day.”

“I don't mind.” Andrew actually didn't. Milo's arm and the pressure of his body on Andrew's back were surprisingly nice, even the breath whispering past his ear.

Milo's hand caressed his belly slightly. “We'll sort it all out in the morning, kay?”

“Right,” Andrew said, already half asleep.

His dreams were strange murky things, operatic and violent and sexual. Milo swam through them, popping up in a series of minor roles and cameos, gone as soon as Andrew recognized him. Andrew was searching for something, something he couldn't define, and got increasingly frustrated in his attempts to explain it to other people. The director was waving at him from offstage, but Andrew couldn't hear his orders. Andrew drew closer and the director's face resolved into Milo's.

“What's my motivation?” he asked. Milo cupped his chin and kissed him.

 

Milo still looked decadently good when he strode in wearing last night's clothes. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Andrew was cutting up brioche and spooning berries into a bowl. Quiche already sat hot and ready at the table, and a pitcher of farm-fresh milk. Milo, rubbing sleep from his eyes, gave an incredulous little chuckle.

“You're in a mood.”

“Good or bad?” Andrew called up from the eggs he was whipping.

“Well, you haven't stuck a gun in my face, so I’m erring on the side of good.”

“You'd be right.” Andrew grinned with full white teeth. He'd been up at five this morning, brushing the alcohol from them.

Milo took a seat at the table, looking around. “You've outdone yourself.”

“No,” Andrew said, “outdoing myself would be serving the eggs to you on the Prince of Wales' stomach.”

“Not that that's out of your reach.”

“Naturally.” Andrew's grin faltered, his eyes dipped down to the table. Milo followed his gaze, picked up a white slip of folded paper at his place setting.

“What's this?”

“Oh, I was just up this morning.” Andrew watched him from the corner of his eyes. “making calls.”

Milo read to himself. Andrew tried not to tear the eggs with his shaking hands.

Milo put the paper down. “I can't accept this.”

“Oh hell.” Andrew set the pan down. “Yes you bloody can. You're a fantastic actor, and that part was written for you.”

“What part?”

“You mean you didn't even read...” Andrew sighed. “Bill Brennan. He's a historical cop, sharp-witted and cynical around his mates, common but not stupid. You could play him standing on your head.”

Milo snickered. “I think my forte's more bugger-murderers. I'm a method actor.”

Andrew ignored the eggs blackening in the pan. “You could do it. I know you could.”

Milo locked eyes. “It's not a matter of 'do'. It's a matter of 'want'. And do I want to accept this part?”

“Take a look at the writer.”

Milo did and took a breath.

“Him? The teleplaywright of the twentieth century?”

“The BAFTA machine? He's all ready to roll out this new series, a police procedural with a twist. You play Bill's descendant in the modern day, too, re-discovering all his crimes. See, Brennan was retired in disgrace, and his descendant thinks it was a set-up.”

Milo rested his cheek on his knuckles. “The way you paint it, it's like I'm there.”

Andrew huffed. “Fine then,” he said, turning back to his eggs, “but you would be a good fit. I didn't even have to talk him into it. Said you came to me in-character. Called it a viral audition, he loved it!”

The eggs went in the sink. Milo read in earnest, looking like a bored schoolboy as his eyes followed the words.

Andrew scrubbed the pan and set it on the counter. Milo was looking at him when he turned back around.

“Well?”

“Is this how you say sorry?” Milo asked.

Andrew swallowed. “I am. I really am. But you'd be good, you know you would.”

Milo tapped the paper on his plate. “You know, you don't have to make such grand gestures of reparation if you don't transgress in the first place?”

Andrew stuttered. “It's not that grand, I haven't even pulled strings yet. Not really.”

Milo finally laughed. It wasn't mean. “I can't believe this.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“I mean you. Me. This.” Milo gestured to his plate.

“I don't often eat eggs with attempted assassins,” Andrew said, “sorry if you think this is a regular occurrence.”

Milo smiled. “You know, I'm not entirely sure why I like you.”

Andrew's stomach went into a knot. “That's fair,” he managed.

“I mean, I like you, I do.” Milo assuaged. “but I don't know why.”

Andrew watched him, corners of his mouth twitching. “Again, join the club. It's highly exclusive, secret handshake and everything.”

“Do I take that to mean you don't know why you wanted me in the first place?”

“Oh I know _why_ I wanted you,” Andrew said, “I just don't know how or why I got you. Why I took that first step. Normally I just sort of...sit and simmer, if you follow.”

“I do.” Milo tore into the brioche.

“I don't really go in for other people, men especially, cuckolds least of all.”

Milo laughed. “I seem to be a man of exceptions. That's what Maggie said to me: ' _I don't normally go in for poor boys, you know_ .'”

Andrew's eyes glistened. “Don't do that.”

“Don't do what?”

“Speak in her voice.” His broke a little. “Don't mention her at all, in fact. I don't want to think about her.”

“Sour grapes, huh?” Milo's eyes were bright and teasing.

“Not at all, I just don't want to have her face floating in my head when I’m trying to blow you.” Milo guffawed. “Or you me. I don't want to think about other people.”

Milo's mouth quirked.

“I think I've found why I like you,” he said.

“Oh?”

“It's because you're just my sort of person.” Milo hid his smile in his glass of milk.

Andrew didn't hide his. “I believe that. How many attempted murder-buggerers can there be?”

“Oh, not many,” Milo said seriously, “not around here. Brighton, maybe. But they're not as nice.”

Andrew nodded. “I've heard that, yes. Not even so much as a 'hello' before they've got you on your stomach and their gun up your arse.”

After a moment, the two men broke out laughing.

“Eat your brioche, you big poof,” Milo said.

“If you don't touch my quiche I’m feeding you to the cows,” Andrew said.

And the morning passed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an appalling lack of porn in this chapter. I'd complain to the manager if I was you.


	5. Breaking Character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to take so long with the update. To make up for it, I think this chapter is like a third longer than the other ones. also, references to the original movie and Yu-gi-oh Abridged for some reason

Milo was reading, or pretending to read. Andrew wasn't even pretending to write. He was staring daggers across the desk at the younger man, who had a cherubic grin on his face, ostensibly caused by the text and not Andrew.

“How's the book?”

“Hmm?” Milo glanced over without really looking. “Yeah. It's great.”

Andrew drummed his fingertips on the keys of his laptop without really pressing them.

“Heard that was quite a soiree last night.”

“You heard right.”

“Dennis said he saw you.”

“That he did. With both eyes, in fact.”

Andrew bit back a curse. “No I mean he _saw_ you.”

“Past tense?”

“With what's-her-name. The actress? Retired to go padding about with tigers who escaped from being pets in the 60's?”

“Ah, the lovely Lorelei.” Milo finally folded his book back, marking his place with a straw wrapper. He wriggled further down in his seat, making his shirt rise up an extra half-inch over his navel.

Andrew swallowed the want down. “Said you were getting familiar with her.”

“That I was.”

“Quite familiar.”

“Andrew,” Milo said pleasantly, “I wonder if it would be too much trouble to just get to the fucking point?”

Andrew closed his laptop with a snap.

“Alright,” he said, “you want to get into it? Dennis said the only thing keeping your trousers from becoming a denim condom was her bloody handbag. Is this what you do when you go out to those parties?”

Milo smiled catlike. “What, to her specifically or to handbags in general?”

Andrew made an inarticulate yell somewhere in between the word “you” and a cat's meow.

“So is this how it's going to be? You whoring it up every time I turn my back?”

“ _Slutting_. I prefer slutting.”

Andrew had a roll of paper in his hand, he tapped it in tight rhythm against his other hand.

“I know,” he said, “it isn't done to go advertising you've got an old geezer paying your way in exchange for a little tumble in the hay. But could you at least...try to act somewhat monogamous?”

Milo wriggled his leg back and forth, back and forth. “How do they act, monogamous people? Do they wear their hair different, or is it more in the accent? Do they walk amongst us daily?”

Andrew threw the paper at him. It tumbled end-over-end and wound up on the floor far away from Milo. He tsked.

“Andrew, you're getting a bit out of sorts. Have a drink. That always settles the old cobblers.”

“I'll settle you!” Andrew threw a nearby pen at him, which did hit its mark. Milo dodged, laughing.

“It wouldn't be so bad if you didn't come back here and wave it in my face.” Andrew whipped off his glasses. “I've done everything short of carve your face into the moon to get you promoted, could you at least act just a tiny bit gracious?”

Milo cocked his head, musing. “Which part of the moon?” he asked.

Andrew stood still for a moment. Then he stalked off to the next room.

“Don't be shirty, Andrew,” Milo called after him, “that's SO Harold Pinter.”

Andrew came back into the room, hand in his robe pockets.

“And another thing, would it kill you to wear something else around the house?” Milo asked.

“What, like a bloody speedo?”

“I was thinking more of a whipped-cream bikini, or something along those lines.”

Andrew's kukri was suddenly dimpling the skin of Milo's neck.

Milo laughed low in his throat. “Listen, Andrew, I’ve heard this crazy rumor that knives can kill you?”

“Really?” Andrew deadpanned, “no bleedin' idea. Get up.”

Milo held his hands up. “Please don't kill me mister burglar, I’ll tell you where the jewels are.”

“They're not in your head, that's for sure,” Andrew snapped, “now, for the last bloody time, GET! UP!”

Milo popped up, casually menacing. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m about to get the wrong idea—“

Andrew pointed with the knife. Milo followed it with his gaze. “The pantry?”

“What? No!” Andrew flickered the knife. “Into the spare room.”

Milo tango-stepped in front of the knife, sweeping his stomach dangerously close to the tip several times. Andrew would jerk it back before it made contact and then berate himself for flinching.

Milo about-faced in the doorway of the room and walked backwards, hands on his head.

“I suppose it's too late for a last reprieve?” he asked mock-solemnly.

“You're lucky you're cute,” Andrew snapped, “otherwise I would have smothered you long ago.”

Milo guffawed. “This is what you do to people you're attracted to? What'd you do with your first school crush, burn her at the stake?”

“She wasn't as vexing as you are,” Andrew said, pushing him. Milo pantomimed a fall, arms pinwheeling out, look of terror fixed on his face. He hammed up the landing, pretending to be knocked out. Andrew ran the flat of the blade down his thigh.

“To the middle, boy.”

Milo complied, spider-crawling away.

Now that Andrew had a second to rest, he considered his options. Milo spread himself out for inspection. Andrew let his gaze slide lewdly up the other man's body. _Mine_ , he thought, gleefully possessive. _**Mine**_.

“Are you just going to stand about all day? I'm bo- _oored_ ,” Milo called up to the ceiling. Andrew mounted the bed, straddling Milo's torso, and held the knife against his neck. He stroked his cheek, peering acquisitively into Milo's eyes.

“Now, tart,” he said, “you take off all that teddy-boy finery before I lose patience and shove this–” he wiggled the knife, “–up your arse.”

Milo made a show of undressing, sighing reluctantly and unbuttoning one at a time. A perfect picture of resistance, if you ignored the ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth, the way he had to bite his lip occasionally to retain a laugh. With snakelike grace, he slid his trousers off without touching Andrew's parted legs. Andrew flicked his nipples with the edge of the blade, enjoying the unscripted wince the boy made.

“What now, sir?” Milo said mock-fearfully.

Andrew dropped a pair of handcuffs on Milo's torso. Milo gave a shocked guffaw.

“You dirty old bird,” he said, half admiringly.

“You think you're the only one who can play kinky?” Secretly, Andrew was proud of himself. They were a souvenir of the first adaptation of Blind Man's Bluff, mere sheet metal, but they would hold up for the purpose.

Milo shook his head disbelievingly, snapping one cuff around a wrist. Andrew grabbed the other and threaded it through above Milo's head, pulling the young man's body taut beneath him, and snapped the other cuff round the other wrist. Andrew scooted back a little to admire his work. Milo basked like an offering of overripe fruit.

“Well,” Andrew murmured, “now you really _are_ charming.”

He bent low and kissed Milo forcefully. The young man resisted a bit. Good. He complied after a second. Even better.

When Andrew pulled away, he found the source of the prodding he had felt in his midsection only a second earlier.

“You're ready to go at any hour of the day, aren't you? Good god, you're practically priapistic!”

“How adorably alliterative.”

“See, you can be taught.”

“What's your plan now?” Milo asked, “you'll never get away with this, you dastardly devil.”

Andrew slapped his cheek affectionately. “Weak improv. Stick to the script, baby.”

He left to the other room. Milo had set up a chest of drawers, the “toybox” as he so perversely dubbed it, with all the various purchases he had done without Andrew's knowledge. Andrew rattled around aimlessly in the drawer, taking his sweet time. What he wanted was already out on the night table, still fresh from its package. Andrew could only guess that Milo had been waiting to spring this little toy on him, slowly getting him receptive to the idea. Andrew decided that demonstration was the best teacher and gathered up the toy.

Milo's eyes widened a bit when Andrew appeared back in the room. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, who the hell are you all the sudden?”

“Give you a hint,” Andrew said, warming to his role, “Marquis of something, begins with S. Come on, put all your public school know-how into it!”

Milo laughed throatily. “Finally, you drink the potion and turn back into Hyde!”

“That's Stevenson you bloody idiot.” Andrew was grinning. “Now, I'm going to ask you a question. And if you get it right, I'm going to oil this up before I stick it in you.” He held up the toy.

“And if I get it wrong?”

Andrew smiled, letting silence speak for itself.

Milo chuckled. “All right, headmaster, throw the question at me.”

“What is–no.” Andrew paused, considering his bookshelf. “in what work of mine did a claymore play a pivotal role?”

“You must be joking.”

Andrew let the toy dangle and ticked it like a pendulum.

“All right, all right.” Milo screwed his eyes shut. “It's got to be–the one with the girl?”

“You're going to have to be much more specific,” Andrew said with relish.

“Okay, give us a minute.” Milo tilted his head back, eyes closed. God he was a sight. “The–the one with the flapper and the bloke with the intestinal problem?”

“Are you sure you're not describing a fever dream? Twenty seconds.”

“This was _timed_? The one with the twin brothers and their pet crocodile.”

“Alligator, no, and you have fifteen left.”

“Blind...Pew!”

“That's not one of mine. Ten.”

“Bloody–give me a chance!”

“Nine.”

“It's got to be–”

“Eight.”

“The one with the bloke–”

“Seven.”

“ _Dead_ something.”

“Six.”

“Dead– _Dead Man's Bluff?_ ”

“No. Five.”

“Fuck! Okay–”

“Four.”

“Dead–”

“Three.”

“ _Dead Man's Hand, Dead Man's Hand_ ,” Milo burst out. He was actually flustered, face red.

Andrew held a finger to his watch.

“Two,” he said, “and yes.”

Milo gave a gasping laugh of relief. Andrew petted his hair away from his face.

“Good boy,” he said,” we'll make an apt pupil of you yet.”

Milo let his head fall back.

“Just remember, the stuff in the bottle, not oil,” he said, “oil plays havoc with latex.”

“You're such a schooled gentleman,” Andrew called as he rummaged in the drawer, “you could teach a survey class in perversion.”

“Could you TA?” Milo asked coyly from the bed.

Andrew found the bottle. “No. I’d be the prick in the back row shouting ' _that's what she said_ ' after every sentence.” He drizzled the lubricant.

“Now how did you know I did that?” Milo purred as Andrew took up a position between his legs.

“Easy, you've got a prickish face.”

“Must be why you enjoy sticking yours in—oooh!”

Andrew already had the toy halfway up Milo's anus. It was roughly cone-shaped, flared at the very bottom(which Milo told him was important) and an embarrassing shade of purple.

“I'm never letting you shop for me again,” Andrew mused as he explored inside Milo. When he brushed a spot that made Milo yelp and jump slightly, Andrew nodded and slid the toy in the rest of the way.

Milo was gasping slightly when Andrew rose up to look at him. 

“How're you getting on?” he asked lightly.

“Just—hnnnn.” Milo kinked in the middle when Andrew switched the toy on.

“Didn't know I knew about this, did you?” he called over the buzzing and Milo's moans.

Andrew cruelly ground the vibrator against Milo's prostate, passively watching him squirm. The younger man ground his hips against the air.

“Andrew,” he gasped, “touch me.”

Andrew put a hand up to his ear. “that didn't sound like a request. No, Milo. In this game, if you want something, you're going to have to  _beg_ !” he twisted the stem, upping the vibration. Milo yelped, fluctuating wildly.

It was almost too good to stop, but Andrew knew that if he was going to get all he planned, foreplay would have to stop.

He switched the toy to its lowest setting and eased it back out of his lover. Milo whimpered.

Andrew shucked his trousers off, admiring the view. Milo lay disheveled, panting, completely at his mercy. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt and slid it off. He folded each item of clothing he took off his body neatly and tucked them into drawers.

Milo groaned. “Hurry up, for fuck's sake!”

Andrew hummed amiably as he took forever to slide out of his pants, folding them in a tight little triangle and then putting them among the others. Then he  _slowwwly_ got on the bed, standing on his knees and crawling at a snail's pace to Milo's prone body.

“What's that, slut?” 

Milo turned a not-entirely-friendly look to Andrew. “Just stick it in me already.”

“Ooh, not ten minutes pass and you're already begging for it. It's a wonder you get anything done during the day.”

Andrew scooted between Milo's legs and gathered up his knees.

“You want me to–to _fuck_ you?” he said, faking affront.

Milo gave him a dead stare. “If it's not too much trouble.”

Andrew teased his entrance with the head of his cock, smiling beatifically.

“The thing I think your generation really lacks,” he said conversationally as he slid up and down Milo's cleft, “is patience. Works wonders.”

“Works me more than you do.”

Andrew suddenly pressed inside him.

“Like that?” he gasped. 

Milo arched his back.

Andrew took his sweet time sliding in, too, enjoying every twitch in Milo's face, every convulsion in his body. He came to a stop as Milo's cock rubbed against his navel. Disgusting, but oddly appealing. 

Milo jiggled his hips, whimpering a bit. “Andrew, enough of this. Just fuck me already.”

Andrew leaned close, suddenly serious.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he asked.

Milo looked up, shocked. “What?”

“Telling me what to do. You know what you are?”

“I don't—”

“A prick. A slut. A slattern. You're a jumped-up pantry boy who doesn't know his place!”

Andrew slapped him smartly on the rump. Milo yowled and jumped slightly.

“Andrew—”

He repeated the slap.

“You vain little catamite, you opportunistic cocksucker, you— _actor_!”

He dove forward, teething one of Milo's nipples, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses up to his neck. He nuzzled Milo's ear forcefully.

“You want a fucking, you're going to get a fucking,” he hissed in the shell of Milo's ear. “but _I_ decide what the fucking will be. You are only to receive the fucking, lay there like a good little toy.”

“Andrew,” Milo moaned.

Andrew touched their noses together. “What,  _dear_ ?” he asked severely.

“Yes, god yes.”

Andrew kissed him without a single shred of tenderness, moving his hips at the same time. Milo groaned against his mouth, so Andrew forcefully invaded with his tongue. 

It was a wonder he could maintain control at all. The sight of the boy, the sensation, it was almost too much. But Andrew held character as he savaged Milo's arse, growling debasements in his ear. He remembered to angle his hips, remembered to work the cock that angled like a blind worm into his stomach. Either Milo was the best actor in the history of the world, or Andrew was doing well. He decided to err on the side of vanity and nibbled on Milo's neck. This earned him a howl and a thrash.

The headboard, which he had been told was carved from a single block of mahogany and earthquake-proof, was slamming rhythmically against the wall. Probably make a dent. Sadly, Andrew was currently in the process of giving a fuck about something else, and could not be bothered. Milo was more vocal than he'd ever been, shouting with each thrust. It was so easy for Andrew to lose himself to the rhythm, lose himself in Milo's body, forget everything else but the sweet voltage that their bodies generated. He came hard, sobbing slightly into Milo's hair, as the younger man cried out and clamped down internally, painting Andrew's chest with white strokes. 

After an eternity Andrew remembered he had a body. Another epoch passed before he realized Milo also had a body. As slow as a glacier receding, he remembered there was a key to the handcuffs.

Milo's wrists were rubbed a little raw where the cuffs had been chafing. Andrew kissed them each in turn and laid them at his sides. He kissed each of Milo's cheeks and then paused, a breath's space in between their mouths, before kissing Milo's lips. Milo weakly returned the kiss and sighed.

Andrew pulled away after the kiss ended and looked Milo up and down, smiling fondly.

“So, how did the party go?” he asked conversationally.

Milo groaned, stretching both arms out sideways.

“Dismal,” he said. “I played the social fucking butterfly, but I don't think I’m going to be Moriarty in the new Sherlock series.”

“Oh hell,” Andrew said, “that is a disappointment.”

“They said they didn't think I could play a villain convincingly.”

Andrew laughed incredulously. “Are they serious?”

“Too clean-cut, too boyish.” 

“Oh, well, that's their loss love.” Andrew kissed him again. “if you want I could talk to Peter Geffington. I hear he's remaking one of the old Quatermass serials.”

“Sounds breathtaking.” Milo squirmed. “when I can sit down again, I’ll go in for an interview.”

Andrew laughed.

 


	6. Folie a Deux

Andrew was reading the paper when he heard the door shut.

“Coming in, love?” he called.

There was no answer, but he could hear the tap of footsteps as someone walked down the hall. The cadence sounded off, as if they were wearing unfamiliar shoes.

Andrew set down the paper just as Milo walked in.

He jokingly began, “wrap party run...late?”

Milo stood in the door, poised with one knee braced against the door frame and his hip cocked.

In women's clothing.

Andrew let a little air escape.

On examination it was easy to see that he had donned Maggie's old duds. They strained in some places and fell loose in others. But Andrew was of the opinion that Milo could wear a full suit of armor and still look like sex incarnate.

Someone had done his makeup as well. Milo's lips were coloured smoky merlot, his eyes done in similarly dark fashion to match. There was even blush accentuating the high points of his cheekbones. And yes, when Milo went to brush a bit of hair from his face, his nails were done too.

Milo smiled mysteriously, obviously detecting his success, and catwalked across the room to Andrew. His stockinged thighs purred against one another.

Milo came to a stop before the author.

“Mr. Wyke, I presume?”

Dear _god_ he even had the voice down. Milo's skill as an actor came into play now, and he wasn't putting on a music hall falsetto, he simply _was_ a woman. He had reduced the resonance of his voice and added a breathy quality, the result made Andrew's knees ache. Everything, from the way he held his mouth to the way he walked, everything was perfect.

Andrew's only coherent thought was,  _now that's not fair._

Milo put a hand out, palm down, waiting to be kissed. Andrew had to restrain himself from licking it.

“I haven't met many authors,” Milo mused, “you must be so... _intellectual._ ”

Andrew's body gave a little scream. “Yes well,” his voice breaking adolescently, “I try to pursue intellectual things in my everyday life. Spend most of the day buried in thought, actually. But it does get a bit lonely now and then.”

“Ooh,” Milo sounded amused, “you poor man. Could you use a bit of company?”

Andrew wasn't sure if whimpering like a dog would be an acceptable answer, so he nodded shakily. Milo smiled sinfully and slipped off Maggie's coat, one arm at a time, slow as a striptease.

Andrew stammered, “what do I call you?”

Milo looked pleasantly surprised. “Now, I hadn't thought of that.” He stroked a hand down the length of his stomach. “Perhaps you could make one up for me?”

Andrew desperately tried to keep the moisture in his mouth. “Mil...Millie?” That was not a proper name for a sexpot. “Milla? Malificent?” All wrong.

Milo pursed his lips. “I thought you were supposed to be a writer?”

“I was...I mean I am!” Andrew wriggled forward in his seat, reaching out to gather Milo up. “just give me a second, this is all so sudden!”

Milo dodged his hand with a sudden slap, then ticked his finger back and forth.

“No touching,” he said primly.

Adrew whimpered this time.

Milo's smile expanded voluptuously. “ _I_ touch _you_.”

“Sounds good,” Andrew said dimly as Milo sank to his knees. A cruel parody of their first encounter. Milo's smoky gaze let Andrew know he was thinking the same thing. He coyly sucked at his bottom lip.

“Mr. Wyke, could you open your zip for me?”

Right now, if Milo handed him a buck knife and asked him to disembowel himself, Andrew probably would have complied immediately. Andrew unzipped so fast that the hem of his shirt got caught in the track and he struggled with it. Milo hid a smile behind one manicured hand. He touched Andrew's fumbling fingers, stilling them, and operated on the zipper himself. The teeth parted like the red sea.

“Thank you,” Andrew blurted.

Milo nodded benevolently.

Now that the task was done, Andrew didn't know what to do with his hands. He open and closed them, grasped his knees to keep them from shaking.

“My dear,” he said, “is there anything else you–need?”

Milo looked him up and down, running a red nail along Andrew's pant leg.

“I could do with a good cock,” he said bluntly, “know where I could find one?”

His statement startled giggles from Andrew.

“Cheeky bitch,” he said, getting into the role, “you've got quite a mouth on you.”

Milo fanned his lashes. “Well, what do you suggest would be a better use for it?”

Andrew immediately began fumbling for himself, sucking air over his teeth when he grazed the shaft of his penis with a nail. He carefully extracted his erection from the confines of his trousers, leaving it to sit aching in the air. It pointed directly at Milo's mouth like the needle of a compass at magnetic south.

Milo made a moue with those lips.

“Intriguing notion,” he breathed, opening Andrew’s shirt just a little and running a flat palm down his chest, “tickles the old cobblers.”

Andrew finally did something with his hands. He wound his fingers through Milo's hair.

“Girls don't have cobblers.”

Milo's mouth quirked ever so slightly upward in the corner, displaying a twinkle of canine. “You'd be surprised.”

Andrew smiled down at Milo, stroking his hair. “You look magnificent in this light.”

“You should see me in the dark, babe.” Milo casually flicked a piece of hair from his lipstick, red claw leaving a thin streak of crimson down his cheek. Andrew followed it with his gaze, with his want, with his whole body.

“Milo,” he begged. Milo gave a funny little sigh, settling a bit into the embrace of Andrew's legs, and took him in hand.

It was a cliché, but everything Milo did was amplified by his appearance. The grasp of his red-taloned hands brought not only a flood of warmth but an electric shock, that flickered pleasurably from the base of Andrew's cock to the base of his skull. He shuddered, closing his eyes in contentment.

Milo pressed those devil red lips against the head, making a great show of moaning and putting little kisses on the feverish flesh in his hands. Andrew petted Milo's hair with both palms and sighed.

The younger man parted his lips and swallowed his way down the engorged shaft while looking straight up at Andrew. His cheek bulged as he let the head angle into his mouth. Then he stopped.

Andrew could not stop himself from rocking slightly. Milo had something planned, he knew, but he could not help grasping for the younger man like a child overeager for a treat. Milo, instead of batting him away again, took Andrew's hand in his, stroking the back of it gently.

And Milo swallowed him down.

Andrew was too shocked to react. His head hit the back of Milo's throat and stopped for a heartbeat before following it inevitably down. Milo gagged ever so slightly, but never wavered, never pulled his gaze from Andrew's face. The sensation when Milo swallowed was almost unbearable.

Milo let Andrew slide from his mouth and then sucked him down again. He continued on with this sweet torture, languidly taking his time. Andrew didn't mind. If Milo went any faster he was very sure that he would melt completely. Andrew could not help a whimper every time Milo drew him in, and a moan every time he let him slide out again. He would like to stay in, wedged deep in his lover's throat, though he knew by its very impetus it could not last. Milo would pull out to tease and slurp at the head before deepthroating him again. With all of it, the teasing, the look of Milo resplendent in the half-light, it was too much. He petted Milo's hand, and Milo understood. He pulled his mouth off just in time, white-hot jets streaking past his made-up face and lovely hair, to paint the floor. Andrew held onto Milo's hand like it was an anchor, sliding bonelessly back into the chair. Milo perched on his lap, wriggling his bottom to get a more comfortable purchase.

“Do I pass the audition?” he asked in his normal voice.

Andrew groaned. “Take the bloody Oscar, you win for the rest of eternity.”

Milo chuckled. “You're so flattering. I couldn't buy stronger endorsement.”

Andrew wound his arm around Milo's torso.

“You look better in those clothes than Maggie ever did,” Andrew said.

“You're so shallow,” Milo said fondly, stroking Andrew's forearm with his fingertips. Andrew buried his face in Milo's chest, smelling sweat and the ghost of his wife's perfume.

 

Milo had drawn a bath in the black-and-chrome bathroom and lay in the steaming water like an errant jasmine bud.

Andrew rapped on the door frame with his knuckles.

“Mind if I join you?”

Milo raised an eyebrow and sank down a little in the water. His hair was slicked back with wetness, all traces of makueup gone.

Andrew stopped just before the rim of the tub, hand creeping to the robe tie.

“Mind if I,” he swallowed, “join you?”

Milo gave a shrug. “It's your house.”

“Yes, but it's your bath,” Andrew countered.

Milo grinned. “Good point. Yes, hop on in. the water's perfect.”

Andrew felt oddly exposed, undressing before Milo in here. Even after all they'd done, he supposed he'd never be as comfortable with himself as the younger man was. He yelped as he put a foot in the water.

“That's _hot.”_

“Like I told you,” Milo said, “perfect.”

Andrew's flesh reddened almost instantly on contact with the water, but he had to admit it was rather nice. He suspended himself above Milo's legs, bracing his forearms on the rim of the tub, watching.

Milo smiled and scooted to one side, gesturing to the other end of the tub. Andrew let his body drop into the water, stretching out opposite Milo, quashing the little flame of disappointment.

“So,” Milo said, “here we are.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “Here we are,” he echoed.

The tap dripped.

“I hope you're not expecting a repeat performance so soon after.”

“No.” Andrew laughed. “Good God, I can hardly stand.”

Then, timidly: “do you think that's what I’m all about?”

“What?”

“The sex. You think that's the only thing I’m after?”

Milo raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

“Because I’m not. I really, really like...us.” Andrew cleared his throat again. “I’ve enjoyed your company, I really have.”

“Andrew,” Milo said, amused, “I believe you.”

“Oh,” Andrew said, “oh good.” And lapsed into awkward silence.

Milo tilted his head back, sighing. The little ringlets at the base of his neck were dripping onto the floor, but Andrew would never complain. Especially not now, with Milo's hand finding his knee underwater and squeezing it.

“So tell me, cherub,” Milo said conversationally, “what's it all about?”

“Eh?”

“You. Me. Us. What do you see as the focal point of this relationship.”

“Games,” Andrew said before he could stop himself.

Milo laughed. “I know that, sweetheart. But what else?”

When Andrew spoke, it was a petulant murmur directed at the water. “I don't know why you've got to go spoiling things by overthinking. Not now.”

“Why?”

“We have fun!” Andrew burst out.

Milo, taken by surprise, laughed.

“Fun,” he said, “like you had with Maggie?”

“It wasn't just about the money and yes, we had fun. Why you have to go bringing her up—”

“You did last time, I’m just making us even.”

“Maggie and I had fun,” Andrew insisted, “proper fun. It wasn't all...it couldn't have been just pretend. We went places and we laughed. It wasn't just about money.”

He stopped himself, breathing hard through his nose.

Milo casually scratched behind his ear.

“As long as we're airing things out,” he said, “Maggie and I had fun. She didn't make me spend money on her, she even bought _me_ things. Truth be told, I think I was a bit of a project for her. That's not to say I didn't like it but...there _is_ more to it than fun, Andy.”

“Don't call me that.”

“What? Andy? You've had your cock inside me more than once, I think we can start calling each other by something a little less formal.”

Andrew gave him a little shove with his foot. “I spent the first part of my life being called 'Andy', actually made a stipulation in my first publishing contract that they couldn't shorten it. Anyway, that's not fair. I've nothing to call you by. You can't shorten Milo.”

“Millie,” Milo said and giggled. Andrew shoved him with his foot again.

The water was cooling to bearable temperatures now. Andrew supposed that meant Milo would get out soon. He grasped the younger man's knee and wiggled it gently.

“Milo,” he said tentatively, “what do you suppose you'll do when this...when it's over?”

Milo laughed, shaking his head. “You're so maudlin,” he said, sinking chin-deep in the bath again.

“No really,” Andrew prodded, “if it ends. If we're not together anymore.”

“You mean if you kill me?”

“No, I mean...if you kill me or something–no, that's not right. If...if for whatever reason, we should part.”

“Like you get tired of me?” Milo stretched one arm above his head.

“Or you get tired of me,” Andrew said softly, “or we mutually call it quits or one of those gossip rags expose our affair and you break away from the scandal or...” he let out a painful, shuddering sigh, “anything really.”

Milo looked at him, not a trace of mockery in his eyes. “Well,” he began, “I would be really sad, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And I’d...” he sighed, “I dunno. I suppose I’d have to learn to live without you again. Probably bury myself in work.”

“You'd do well at it,” Andrew said.

“Well, maybe yes, maybe no,” Milo said, “without your generous support.”

“Oh you'd have it,” Andrew said, surprise creeping into his voice. “No matter how we part, you're an amazing actor. Your talent should be shared with the world.”

Milo smiled without humor.

“What if you've died?”

“You mean if you kill me?”

“No, I mean you die.” Milo put his elbows up on the rim of the tub. “we stay together for many wonderful years, and you kick it while I’m in the middle of filming. What the hell do I do then?”

“Obviously I have my servants entomb you in the pyramid next to me,” Andrew said. The laugh broke the tension in a much-needed way.

“Look, all I’m saying is,” Andrew gulped, “you can always count on my support. No matter what terms we part on. I don't want you to be afraid of that.”

Milo's face was inscrutable. “Maggie said you said something similar to her.”

“Oh _hell._ ” Andrew sent a little tidal wave to break against Milo's chest. “That's not the same at all. You've...you've opened doors for me, can you see that?”

“I see,” Milo said, grinning, “you never forget your first time, eh?”

“I have. It was with one of the shop girls who lived nearby when I was a lad. They all sort of blurred into one face after a while, one girl with Twiggy eyes and a cheap polyester dress.”

“No, I meant being in love,” Milo said.

“Oh,” Andrew said. “ _oh.”_

The water was quite cool by the time they got out.

 


	7. Amuse-bouche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* the penultimate chapter! will i end this on a cliffhanger? will there be a shocking swerve? is water wet?

“Looks like MSF has pulled out of Myanmar,” Andrew said, repositioning his newspaper to spoon jam on his toast.

“Mmm?” Milo looked up from the TV. “What does that mean?”

“No fucking idea,” Andrew said breezily. Milo shook his head, chuckling, and beheaded his egg.

The front door opened and a staccato dance of footsteps traced from the entrance hall to the breakfast nook. Maggie strode in black ferragamo wedges, a red pleather blazer over a topshop blouse and artfully ripped jeans ten years too young for her. She had her long, dark hair up in a high pony-tail.

“Hi,” Milo said.

“Darling,” Andrew said.

Maggie whipped off her face-devouring sunglasses, took in the sight of both of them at breakfast, and smirked.

“Well well,” she said, “what a quaint domestic scene. Milo?”

Milo nodded courteously.

“Andy?”

Andrew stifled his frown.

Maggie looked from one to the other, smiling knowingly.

“I suppose breakfast is off then?”

“We made that date weeks ago,” Milo said, “things have changed a bit since then.”

“How?”

“Well for one, the butter's probably no good now.”

“If you haven't already used it all on him.” she indicated Andrew with a nod.

Andrew felt colour rising in his cheeks. “Now just hold on a minute—”

“Don't get indignant, love, it doesn't suit you.” Maggie's glee was nigh-on reptilian. “I should've realized on our honeymoon when you kept wanting to talk about books instead of getting what you paid for.”

“Talk about books?” Milo asked, “what did you get, the library suite?”

“No, we got the Greek suite,” Andrew said tonelessly, “and she turned into Medusa the second I got her alone.”

“Apt, since they were more into boys anyway.” She made a moue at Milo. “I guess this means we aren't running away together?”

“Oh I can't,” Milo said, “he has a gun and promised to put one right in my arse if I so much as look at the door.”

“Hasn't he already done that?”

Andrew possessively covered Milo's hand with his. “And likewise.”

“Likewise? I'm not familiar with that position.”

“We fuck each other, it's what people do.”

“How _common_.” She took off her jacket and slung it over the chair in front of her. “I didn't think you went in for the proletariat dance.”

“He...convinced me,” Andrew said, “he's a very good dancer, incidentally.”

Maggie shot a naughty look at Milo, who winked. “Yes,” she said, “he is.”

Andrew swallowed. “I supposed this is what they meant when they said love is a young man's game.”

“Sure they weren't talking about rugby?”

Milo rested a cheek on his hand, gaze batting back and forth between Andrew and Maggie, small smile on his face.

“Shall I wait to clear away the breakfast dishes or are you two done cutting tiny pieces off each other?” he asked.

“Oh, this is merely the appetiser,” Andrew said, setting his cup down heavily, “for the main course she'll flay the skin from my back.”

“And why shouldn't I?” Maggie asked, “it's not like you gave me anything substantial.”

“I gave you my heart.”

“And again, I said _substantial_.”

“Maybe you'd like to cut my bollocks off and have them fried up for afters?” Andrew snapped.

Maggie bent double, clapping and laughing. “A fine little amuse-bouche, you could serve them on the same toothpick and still have room for the olive.”

Andrew glared at Milo, who hid suspiciously behind his hand.

Maggie recovered from laughing, dabbed at the corner of each eye(careful not to smudge her mascara) and dropped into the seat opposite them. She covered Milo's hand fondly with hers.

“So,” she said, suddenly warm, “how's it going, ducks?”

“Brilliant,” Milo said, “I sleep like a baby every night.”

“You mean attached to a breast?” Andrew said, “because that would be something new.”

Maggie giggled through her nose, laugh-lines crinkling in a way that she hated but Andrew had always found adorable.

“See, I knew you'd like each other,” she said, “you're basically the same man a few decades apart.”

Milo and Andrew looked askance at each other. “We are not,” they said in unison.

Maggie found this endlessly amusing.

“I knew if you didn't kill each other you'd be thick as thieves.”

“Yes, but weren't you the slightest bit worried about the very likely likelihood that we'd kill each other?” Milo asked.

“Well she wins either way,” Andrew said, “either she's a widow or window dressing to a gay tragedy.”

“Lucky for all of us it didn't turn out like that,” Maggie said primly, pouring herself a coffee.

“Lucky for you, you mean. You get free and clear, I’m stuck with your sloppy seconds,” Andrew growled. Milo gave a gasp of mock-offense.

“Did you hear what he just called me?”

“I heard,” Maggie said, “he has no respect for you once he finishes his business. In like a lion, out like a lamp.”

“I wish. He always wants to _talk_ now. About literature and things.”

“Well excuse the shit out of me,” Andrew exclaimed, “for wanting to have a conversation composed of more than vulgarities.”

Milo and Maggie exchanged glances. “See what I mean?”

“At least he's not buying you jewelry you can't wear,” Maggie consoled.

Andrew whipped off his glasses and ground his palm into his eye.

“This is just marvelous, exactly what I wanted,” he muttered, “now if we could just jab the pitchfork directly up my arse to complete the morning.”

Milo patted his back. “Later sweetheart,” he murmured in Andrew's ear.

Maggie followed this action, amused.

“See, Andrew, you finally have someone you can face on your own level,” she said, “you must be pleased.”

“Happy as a pig in shit,” Andrew said. Milo wound an arm around his waist.

“Mags,” Milo said, something Andrew would never have gotten away with, even early in their marriage, “how much?”

“How much of what, dear?” It was intensely clear from her tone and the knowing grin on her face that Maggie knew exactly what he was asking, but wanted to draw it out.

“How much to keep it out of the papers,” Milo said mildly, “or off the air or the internet or wherever you should decide to air your grievances.”

Andrew tensed beneath his touch. Milo stared unwavering into Maggie's kohl-rimmed eyes. Maggie looked from her husband to her lover, eyes sparkling with dark excitement.

“Can I watch?” she asked eagerly.

 


	8. Cara mia, addio

Andrew cocked his pistol. “Any last words, Milo my lad?”

Milo tilted his head, giving Andrew a wildly predatory stare. “Sure,” he said slowly, “I'll listen while you dictate.”

The younger man stood sockfooted across the room from Andrew. He was fidgety and loose, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter. It made Andrew exhausted to look at him.

Andrew crossed the floor, keeping the gun steady at waist height. “Thought that was funny, didn't you, picking me apart in front of Maggie?” He tweaked Milo's nose with the gun barrel. “Well, that's the last bloody time I let you put one into me.”

“That's what she said.”

Andrew threw a pillow at him with his free hand. “I offered you everything, you ungrateful twink. I opened my home to you, I shared my heart with you, and you didn't even appreciate it.”

“You wanted to _keep_ me like a fucking budgie. I'm not a prize in this game, I’m a playing piece.”

They circled each other wolfishly, Milo nimbly dodging around furniture while Andrew stumbled into them.

“I can't believe you would do this to me.”

“Oh, everything happens to _you_ , you solipsistic bully. Never mind the fact that you started this whole thing.”

“Be honest,” Andrew said, “you've lived more intensely in my company than anybody else's.”

“Well, having a gun trained on me at all hours is not my idea of a roaring good time.” Milo feinted to the right, Andrew flinched back.

“Has the thought ever graced that beautiful, empty head of yours that I might not be so angry all the time if you'd stop prodding me?” Andrew sidestepped an ottoman.

“Has the thought ever occurred to you that maybe I have better things to do with my time than be your emotional hanky?” Milo did a little pas de bourree.

“I was giving you an easy out, you little shit,” Andrew snarled, “you'll never be able to keep up in the real game, so why try? Cut your losses.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Milo's hand blurred and suddenly there was a barrel pointing at Andrew's temple.

Milo cocked a hip, smiling. “Didn't know I had this, did you?”

“You're just full of surprises,” Andrew said.

“I told you, I’m a player. And now that my pawn has reached the other end of the board, I think I’ll king myself.”

“That's checkers, you idiot.”

“You see? One minute you're warbling about what a beauty I am, the next you're trying to break me down. You know what you have?”

“What?”

“Morbid jealousy. Look it up.” Milo snorted. “Or _don't_ , rather. Just give you ideas.”

“I can't be blamed for getting jealous when you go bounding off the second you leave my sight.”

“See? There.” Milo pointed his finger like an executioner's sword. “You can't trust anybody, not even yourself. And you just can't be fucking _genuine_.”

“What, and you are?”

“I’ve got more up my sleeve than you'll ever know.”

“Yes, you are full of surprises, my boy. I just never know how long you're going to last: two seconds or three?”

“At least I can get it up.”

“Oh yeah, easiest thing in the world for you. You're like a spaniel trotting around with a rolled newspaper. If I didn't give it to you nightly you'd be humping the furniture.”

“Mmm, and what _sexy_ furniture it is. What's this one called; _Congress Between The Iron And A Pack Of Nails_?”

“I have taste, you little shit, in excess of what you could ever manage.”

“Oh really? Then how do you explain me?” Milo did a little catwalk turn, arms out.

“I can't.” Andrew swallowed. “for the life of me I can't make rhyme nor reason of you.”

“You're a novelist, I thought it was supposed to be your forte.”

“I write crime novels, not steamy gay potboilers.”

“But I bet you could turn your pen to them in a pinch.”

Andrew scoffed. “It's not as if you've given me any good material.”

“I've given you the most you've had in your life, you impotent old queen.” Milo snorted. “Also–you snore.”

“And? I don't even want to _mention_ what you do in your sleep, you hirsute-palmed adolescent.” Andrew swallowed past the rather sizable lump in his throat. “I loved you, you know that?”

Milo laughed humorlessly. “Yes, and then you tried to kill me.”

“Shows I care. I love you so much I can't let you go.”

“You love me so much you can't stop telling me how superior you are and reminding me I’m nothing.” Milo jutted out his chin and squinted. “Go on, call me Tindlini. I fucking _dare_ you.”

“Milo,” Andrew said, “Millie, Milla, Maleficent, I am going to put a bullet into that gorgeous arse of yours.”

“No, no, let's do this proper,” Milo said, “I’ll get an obnoxious young boyfriend in here and you can shoot _him_.”

“Younger than you? He'd practically be in primary school.”

“Logical next step for you. Just keep fucking and killing people until there's no one left in the world but you and a mirror. Then you can congratulate your reflection on his taste in literature and fellate yourself.”

“Maybe then I’ll get someone who does more than fuck me blind and then insult me about it!”

Milo crossed his arms behind his head and thrust his hips. “You know you love it, baby,” he howled, “I fucked you into a successful career, how many other actors can say that?”

“All of them, probably.” Andrew smiled. “Anyway, it'll be a mercy to shoot you. Without me as your backer, you won't make it three months. You'll have to go back to hairdressing–“

“Oh _fuck_ you—“

“–and fucking other men's wives to make ends meet. What started you on that path anyway, normal relationships too stable for you?”

“Well, if I stuck to monogamy I wouldn't meet scintillating personalities like yourself, sweetheart.”

Milo stopped strutting and held his gun hand out full length from his body.

“Are you ready?”

Andrew proffered his gun. “More than.”

Milo's pistol jabbed hard and cold at the junction of Andrew's jaw and neck, Andrew stuck his in the soft skin beneath Milo's chin.

“Any last words?” he asked.

A smile ghosted Milo's lips. “Addio, cara mia.”

They both looked over at the sofa.

“Howzat?” Andrew asked.

Maggie sat upright, eyes dancing with excitement. She bounced a little in her seat.

“Could you kiss?” she asked eagerly.

Both men scoffed.

“Oh please,” she wheedled, “just once?”

Andrew opened his mouth to begin a very well-founded argument on why they should not and were not going to perform for her amusement, but Milo caught his belt buckle with one hand and pulled their bodies flush, and Andrew didn't have the heart to push him away when Milo crashed their mouths together, nuzzling lips and tongue until he quite forgot about Maggie.

He was reminded of his ex-wife's presence a moment later when Milo eased him out of the kiss. Maggie gave light applause.

“Now, I should be off,” she said, standing. “don't like to keep Maurice waiting.”

Milo puzzled. “Maurice?”

Andrew spoke over their linked arms. “Old friend. Gave her a letter of recommendation when he was shopping around for a new wife. He wanted something sporty to show off.”

“Ah,” Milo said, “a match made in convenience.”

“Is there any better?” Maggie tied her scarf in a rude knot, looked at both of them and sighed happily.

“Boys,” she said.

“Andrew,” she said, leaving a chaste peck on his lips.

“Milo,” she breathed, giving him just enough attention to make Andrew jealous.

“I'll be in touch,” she promised.

As they watched her go, Andrew said, “You know, I don't think I’ll ever understand women.

“That much is evident, yes.”

Andrew looked at Milo, who gave him a naughty look. Then he softened slightly, and clasped their hands between them.

“You think she'll be happy?” he asked.

“Are _we_ happy?”

Milo looked him up and down and shrugged. “Seems like.”

“A resounding yes.' Andrew kissed his lips, kissed away the taste of Maggie's mouth. He looked Milo dead in the eye, gently rotating his hips to give just the barest hint of touch to the bulge that had been in his jeans since they started. Milo grinned, revealing canines sharp as a sword, and turned away, walking with an exaggerated strut to emphasize his posterior. Andrew followed, watching.

“Mind you,” Andrew said, “she did miss a lovely opportunity to be called Maggie Tindlini.”

“Oh fuck's _sake—”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questo è tutto quello che ha scritto, folks


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